Ladybird Year

All winter, ladybirds have crept out of the woodwork,
cracks in windows and doors, curtain folds.
I’ve been removing them from the danger
of the computer desk and keyboard
onto the ice rink of the windowsill.

Come spring’s few sunlit weeks they were roaming the window pane, exploring outside new leaves and flowers.

But I remember a spring, exploring local footpaths we found them smothering the chestnut fence, oozing like jam from every crack and fissure. When summer came hot breathed across the rooftops they rose en masse in clouds of blooded dust thickening the air, a plasma of frenzied insects.

We watched from stifled rooms reluctant to go out, afraid we might breathe them into our nostrils or mouths, trap them in our ears or hair, shuddering as the day grew dark with their last wild display, fear stirred by the mad black beetle beneath each bright red coat